


A Study of Symbiosis

by A_dozen_strawberries_in_a_bowl



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Female Draco Malfoy, Female Harry Potter, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Male Hermione Granger, Malfoy Family Dynamics, Slow Burn, characters get progressively more evil throughout the story, characters get progressively more good throughout the story, dramione - Freeform, genderswapped Dramione, granger family dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26102581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_dozen_strawberries_in_a_bowl/pseuds/A_dozen_strawberries_in_a_bowl
Summary: When a Slytherin is made Head Girl and a Gryffindor Head Boy, cooperation becomes difficult. When that Slytherin is Carina Malfoy, and that Gryffindor is Florizel Granger, cooperation becomes impossible. However, as both their lives outside Hogwarts turn for the worse, they naturally seek warmth in each other. Yes, this is a genderswapped Dramione story. AU, with fem!Harry as well
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/and a boy hailing from the most ancient and noble house of black her own age, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	A Study of Symbiosis

Like vodka and lemonade, disgust and serenity mixed together in Carina's quiet soul. Two feelings ordinarily opposed to each other were, secretly and surprisingly, complimentary ingredients for a most tasteful little antipasto. It was late in the afternoon, and from her table in the opulent restaurant, Carina had a prime view of the skyline of the Italian city. The cloudy sky, streaked by splashes of purple and orange, became a ceiling to the endless sprawl of gleaming white facades and ancient, elegant rooftops. Indeed, she was in Rome, _la Città Eterna_ , reclined happily in her chair with a cocktail in hand, accompanied by her closest friend, Daphne Greengarass. Yet, she was in the _muggle_ part of Rome, in a _muggle_ restaurant, sipping on a cocktail prepared by _muggle_ hands, which would be paid for by _muggle_ money—so naturally, her serenity was pleasantly muddled by an inextricable sense of disgust.

"Carrie, you're making me look bad," Daphne teased, smiling. "Drink up! You adore gin, and you adore pomegranate — what's wrong with the two together?"

Where Carina had a solitary glass of pomegranate gin fizz in her hand, Daphne's side of the table was decked with two almost-empty mimosa glasses and two already-finished martini glasses. However, far from making Daphne _look bad,_ Carina thought the contrast they presented enhanced the stylishness of them both. Her pristineness promoted Daphne's extravagance; Daphne's extravagance promoted her pristineness. Where Carina wore a black blouse with sleeves that ran to her wrists and a neckline that concealed her _collarbone_ , Daphne was wrapped in a white silk dress that _squeezed_ at her skin, leaving much of her bosom _and_ her back uncovered. Indeed, contrast made the two as impressive as night and day. Carina was happy to be the indifferent yet forthright, elegant yet unpretentious, exquisite and precise blonde best counter to Daphne, the spontaneous, gorgeous tanned brunette witch-Queen.

"It's not bad," Carina acknowledged, before downing half her glass in a swig, "but house-elves make them better."

"Oh, shush," Daphne condescended playfully. "There's no _real_ difference between muggle cocktails and our cocktails, you know. D'you remember Lydia Ambrose's blind taste test — not just for cocktails, but all sorts of comparable liquors — wine, whiskey, ciders —"

"No, because I detest Ambrose," Carina snapped. "She's a petty, self-demeaning lifestyle columnist who, if given her way, would reduce _witchhood_ to being nothing more than a _housewife_. And no, I don't hate her because she writes _lifestyle_ — but rather 'cause she _exclusively_ writes lifestyle. Rita Skeeter is far superior in that department anyway, because she _also_ writes about the Wizengamot and the Department of International Magical Cooperation and all those grown-up things. If you lose focus of the big picture, you lose focus of everything."

"Well, Skeeter _disgusts_ me," Daphne wrinkled her nose. "Her writing is so insincere — she _pretends_ to be shocked by everything, and always takes the moral high ground — it's like when someone who _lives_ for drama pretends to be shocked by drama, and covers their mouth pretending to hide said shock, when they're actually hiding a smile."

"Which is why she's better," Carina wryly smiled, sipping her fizz. "Skeeter isn't afraid to be larger than life — she respects nothing and no one. Ambrose is a kitten who's scared of the world outside of their cat-house!"

"A metaphor that makes her sound adorable, which she _totally is!_ " Daphne said in a sing-song voice, before popping a cube of prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe in her mouth, "and she's not just a silly house-witch, you know. Oh, I'd say she's quite scientific... In her blind taste test, she had _twenty_ witches wear _antrablack_ blindfolds —"

"This is stupid. No one drinks with their eyes closed, Daph. Presentation affects digestion — Ambrose is a pedant who loses sight of the greater picture. She's dull and I'd sooner overdose on a dreamless sleep potion than ever have to read her prattle again."

"Once again, killjoy Carrie refuses to have fun," Daphne giggled. "At least Lydia lives a pretty life. What does Skeeter do? She's a busybody who breathes down everyone's neck."

"Ambrose is engaged to Gilderoy Lockhart, is she not?" Carina cringed. "I'd sooner join a coven than let Lockhart's slippery hands come anywhere near me."

"Carrie!" Daphne exclaimed in indignation. "Surely you don't mean that — it'd be _vulgar_ to marry Lockhart, certainly, but his eyes, his smile, his voice… so dreamy and deep and hot, so creamy and sweet and milky—"

"Trying to get me to vomit before tonight's party, Daph?"

"Joyless, frigid Carrie," Daphne laughed. "No — but he is kind of cute."

"He's an actor," Carina pointed out matter-of-factly. "He lives on the stage — who's to say he wouldn't treat his relationship as a spectacle, too?"

"Well, his _plays_ are based on the things he's done —"

"Or so he says," corrected Carina.

"But they're fun, Carrie," Daphne pouted. "Oooh, you know what — he's coming back to Britain in Christmas, I'll get us tickets in the stalls!"

"I'd rather watch first-years play Quidditch."

"I promise you won't regret coming."

" _I'd rather watch first-years play Quidditch_."

"I'll never understand your love for that sport."

"I'll never understand your love for Gilderoy Lockhart."

"Hey!" Daphne huffed. "Speaking of love, I think that muggle man has a thing for you."

Daphne nudged her head to gesture at another table, where the muggle man in question was presumably situated. Without even bothering to look at him, Carina corrected her:

"For _you_ , Daph. It's always you."

Although she was exaggerating, the truth was that while Carina was pretty and able in enkindle affection in men by saying the right words, she rarely smiled at anyone who _wasn't_ Daphne (although she smirked plentifully), and felt nothing short of disdain for most members of the opposite sex, whereas Daphne radiated an aura of cheerful, veelaesque softness, that incited in men the stupidity known as 'love on first sight'.

"Perhaps it's both of us," Daphne winked at her, before turning her head to the man, and giving him a tempting smile.

Expressionless, Carina turned to face the muggle man, too. He had long, dark hair and wore a black leather jacket. He sat across his elderly parents, who appeared entirely unaware of his salacious enterprise. Admittedly, he would have been somewhat handsome, were it not for the fact that he was more powerless than an eleven-year-old wizard, and so desperate to satiate his man-urges that he was leering at teenage girls.

"I want to gouge his eyes out of his head," Carina blankly confessed.

"But then who'd give us attention?"

"Only all the boys in the world," Carina answered the rhetorical question.

Daphne laughed and raised a hand to call a muggle attendant for the bill. It was impressive how seamlessly she pabided by muggle etiquette, although Carina privately thought that it was undignified for a witch as well-bred as Daphne to deign to muggle politeness.

They left the restaurant. The muggle streets of Rome were narrow and reeked of cigarettes; disgust in serenity, serenity in disgust.

"You know what, let's just portkey to Corsica now, Carrie — I've seen enough muggle boutique stores for the day. Plus, Tracey and Rus are already there."

Indeed, the two girls were destined for the island of Corsica that evening, to the palatial white marble villa of Bacchus Jacknife, a boy two years their senior and a former Slytherin Prefect who, in his school days, had a reputation for hosting enormous parties in their common room. He was a celebrator of life, expending a considerable sum of his substantive inheritance on his ritual hedonism, but also a meticulous, conscientious planner; back in his school days, he always ensured that first through third years would have their own party going on elsewhere, or a quiet place to sleep otherwise.

Carina groaned. She groaned not at the thought of Bacchus, who she was intensely fond of. He held a special place in her heart, not only because he was abundantly charming and handsome—but because he was the second boy she had ever kissed. No, it was the thought of Tracey Davis that made her tired. Carina knew her resentment for her dorm-mate was entirely unreasonable. Tracey had done her no wrong, and, contrarily, seemed eternally determined on gaining her approval. But the more Tracey sought Carina's affection, the more Carina was repulsed. Carina understood perfectly well why she resented her uglier (but still pretty), less wealthy (but still well-to-do) and less intelligent (but still shrewd) housemate—because she was closer to Daphne.

Carina considered Daphne her best friend, if not her only _true_ friend. The fact Daphne thought of _Tracey_ as her best friend irritated Carina to no end, and the fact there was no one she could confide her petty envy in (father would call her petulant, mother would tell her to be conciliatory, Daphne would be surprised that she could harbour such petty feelings, Theodore Nott would reaffirm her superiority to Tracey as a witch and a girl, and Goyle would grunt and offer to hex Tracey in the common room) only coupled it to an even greater degree of viciousness. Even so, Carina never showed it—she was nothing if not pleasant towards Tracey, and she had no intention of being mean to the girl.

'Rus' was Arcturus Black, Daphne's boyfriend, and Carina's second cousin. There was genuine awkwardness between Arcturus and Carina, as well as real cause for aversion (for their fathers hated each other), but no true animosity between them; an inversion of Carina's situation with Tracey.

Tracey besides, she still felt a sense of premonition for the night ahead. Her mind told her that she would have a good time; alcohol would make the undoubtedly beautiful sceneries of the villa tenfold more splendid, and the conversations of her housemates twenty times more interesting, but her heart simply refused to accept this fact.

"Yes, yes," Daphne sighed. "Groan all you need, Carrie — get it all out. You're always like this. You're always excited for something good, but the moment the good thing comes around the corner, you get cold feet — but it's okay, because you end up having fun anyway."

"Daph, it's different this time," Carina mumbled. "Just thinking about it makes me _tired_. I don't see the point of it."

"The _point_ ," Daphne teased, smiling, "is to stop thinking about the _points_ and purposes of things."

"Alcohol does that, yes," Carina noted, "but it doesn't require _other people_ to achieve its effects."

"You make it sound like it'll be loud and crowded. Don't you remember? Bacchy said it's just a small gathering — only for people he really likes. Plus, c'mon Carrie... getting _drunk_ at _night_ in a villa on an island in the _Mediterranean_ … don't tell me you think it gets better than that?"

Carina snorted. "You're right. I'm not sure why I'm not feeling it."

"Awh, well that's okay, Malfoy, because you're still coming all the same."

Carina grumbled noncommittally. Although the thought of Jacknife's party was still bitter to the palate of her mind, she could do naught but comply with Daphne's wishes. She submitted to Daphne not out of devotion to the abstract principle of their friendship, but because of the active warmth of it. It was better to be miserable with Daphne than to be happy alone, because Daphne knew precisely when Carina wanted to be left alone, and when she wanted attention. In short, everything was improved by Daphne's presence, including being alone.

Their portkey was an absurd little straw hat, which was far too small to fit on any human's head.

"It will activate on two conditions," Carina read off a little note of parchment attached to its brim. "Firstly and obviously, someone must be touching it, and secondly, it must be between forty and fifty past in the hour."

"Three minutes left," Daphne read from her gilded flamingo-pink watch.

"We better find somewhere then."

It was degrading to use a portkey in a muggle city. They had to find somewhere where no one could see them, as though they were committing a great crime. Before the Statute, portkeys were often objects of great beauty; jewelled goblets, gold necklaces and diamond bracelets. Then they became, by and large, silly straw hats and ugly old boots. In Carina's purse was a portkey in the form of a small crystal chalice, which her father had made for her. It was like any respectable portkey crafted before the Statute; upon activation, it would emit a powerful confundus charm, discomcobulating all muggles within a certain radius so that she could teleport unnoticed. It was keyed to Malfoy Manor, and thankfully, she had yet to use it, for it was made for her to escape danger.

Daphne, however, greatly enjoyed exploring urban Rome. She gawked at all the mundane storefronts like a small child in Diagon Alley, and beamed amorous or blissful smiles at every muggle passerby, depending on their sex. Eventually, they found a public bathroom, in which they entered the claustrophobic curiosity known as a 'cubicle', stood atop a toilet, and embraced in a hug, the straw hat sandwiched pressed intimately between their stomachs.

As the portkey activated, Carina felt like she was getting flushed down the toilet. She saw nothing but an all-consuming whirlpool of light, and Daphne's face right in front of her's, which turned into a grotesquely amorphous shape as they teleported.

The grass was smooth and soft, but Carina fell hard. She got up, rubbing her sore back, and beheld a splendid sight.

As opposed to the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean, both of which were dark shades of blue, and the Black Lake, which was unsurprisingly black, the Mediterranean Sea, at least from the island of Corsica, was a _vivid_ sheet of teal. It was as though some gigantic magical being had enchanted it with the colouring charm; the setting sun endowed every last tiny green-blue ripple with glimmering mirth. It lapped softly against the golden shore, and the sound of it was just as soothing as the sight of it. Under a magnificent, cloudy purple-orange sky, Carina at once understood a line from a poem her father read to her when she was five or six years old— _the infinite laughter of the sea_.

"Carrie! Salazar's spleen, help me up."

Evidently, Daphne underwent much greater pains portkeying than Carina did. Alcohol compounded the dizziness incurred by portkeying, and Daphne had four cocktails where Carina had one.

Rather than extending a hand, Carina drew her wand and violently erected Daphne on her feet with a wordless _seize and pull_ charm. A wide smile (and one that she would have failed to suppress, even if she wanted to) came on Carina's face. The sensation of performing magic after hours of being holed-up in a muggle city was exceedingly pleasant. Likewise, Daphne immediately drew her wand, and blew specks of sand off her dress.

"Girls," came the deep, resonant voice of Bacchus Jacknife. "What a pleasure it is to see you again. Welcome to my humble abode."

Neither Bacchus nor his 'abode' were humble. The man was tall, sunburnt but handsome, and had such wildly curly and dirty long blonde hair that he looked like a _mascot_ for the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He wore a billowing white silk robe painted with roses, an androgynous garment for sure, and in each of his arms was a girl; the identical Carrow sisters, Fiona and Hestia. His 'abode' was a three-story marble villa atop a cliff which, despite being surrounded by the glittering sea, had attached to it a huge, pristine swimming pool at the very edge of the cliff.

"Bacchy!" Daphne exclaimed. "Oh, I've missed you — and what a charming robe!"

"I've missed you too, beautiful," Bacchus kissed Daphne on the forehead. "Carina, I trust you're well."

"As always," Carina returned Bacchus' hug, savouring the firmness of his muscles. "Hi, Black."

Arcturus Black, who was a physical duplicate of his father and Carina's uncle Regulus, had come as well. He looked entirely unfazed by Bacchus kissing his girlfriend.

"Carina."

It quickly grew chaotic. More of Carina's housemates, some of whom she hadn't seen in years on account of their elevated age, came to greet Daphne and herself. Daphne emphatically hugged everyone, whereas Carina was more moderate in her affections. She found Marcus Flint, and then Graham Montague and even _Goyle_ —it appeared that Bacchus, himself being a former chaser, had invited the entirety of the Slytherin Quidditch team, including those who he'd never even played with.

"Good fuckin' God, snitch," Marcus, who was clearly already drunk, called from a broomstick. "You are fucking BIG! All grown up and proper now, dressed like it too — how long's it been, two, three years? Time flies quicker than owls shit. But wah-woow, you're prettier than ever."

"And you're uglier than ever," Carina replied with a big smile.

"And an engaged man," Marcus shot a disgusting smile back. "Better play some drunk quidditch with us later, snitch."

With that, he flew away laughing, and Carina's heart warmed greatly. Perhaps it was going to be a fun night indeed.

The first round of drinks accompanied dinner, which was had on the ample balcony of the villa's third floor, where they overlooked the crystalline swimming pool, which then overlooked the sea. The four course meal, prepared by a local company of house elves, began with a variety of hors d'oeuvres: a platter of fresh oysters; grilled eggplants doused in a marinade of olive oil and balsamic vinegar; a charcuterie board replete with cured sausages, cheese, and fruits; and _chestnut flour_ fritters, a local specialty. After a splendid feast of various pastas, roasted wild boar, grilled anchovies and a light tomato soup, dessert came in the form of various _alcohol_ -infused gelatos, as though everyone wasn't already terribly drunk from the liquors that had abundantly flowed through dinner. Carina held a large, pretty glass of golden champagne-beach sorbetto, while Daphne had strawberry shiraz, and Tracey, blackberry merlot.

"Everyone," Bacchus drunkenly rose from his cushioned armchair at the end of the table, tapping a wine glass with his wand. "All of you are in my confidence.. there is no one in this room who I would not call friend — a toast to that," he lifted his glass, "so allow me to treat you with something truly special."

With much drunken disarray and laughter, it took Bacchus ten whole minutes to get all his guests downstairs, then out into the courtyard, then down to the beach where a huge carpet, with pillows, cushions, platters of canapés and floating candles awaiting them. They sat down to face the entrancing darkness of the night's sea.

Bacchus snapped his fingers.

Appearing out of the water was a merwoman— _no,_ a mermaid— _no,_ Carina observed horrifically in her drunken stupor— _a siren_. In all other aspects, it was like a mermaid; a humanoid from waist up, a fish from waist down. However, where mermaids were beautiful, the siren was _terrifying_. Its skin was grey and its veins shone iridescently blue beneath the moonlight. Its eyes were two soulless black bulbs, like tiny, animated bludgers, its nose nonexistent, and its mouth huge and sharklike, from ear to ear, sporting two rows of ravenous, sharp teeth. At once, Carina knew the siren wanted to eat her and everyone who surrounded her. It was terribly ugly; perhaps the ugliest creature she had ever seen, besides a dementor she chanced upon in her fifth year.

"They're ill-e-gal, y'know," Theodore Nott drunkenly stammered, his arm around Carina's shoulder, as he sought to reassure her fear. "Only perm… perm… p-permitted in li-censed ven-ues… don't s'pose your villa's a li-censed venue isit?"

Theo burst into laughing, as though his own absurd question, which went answered by Bacchus, was the funniest thing he had ever heard. Carina rested her head on his shoulder.

"I've enjoyed its song many times already," Bacchus murmured contemplatively. "Worry not — she will only sing at a register bearable for our species. The moment anyone becomes _allured_ , she will stop."

Bacchus, whose alcohol tolerance was a league above everyone else's, steadily put on a pair of enchanted earmuffs, and gestured at the creature, who was half-sunken in the sea like a large lizard half-submerged in a lake, to begin its performance. Carina found it impossible that such an ugly creature would be able to entrance her whatsoever.

She was proven wrong. Very, very wrong.

She sang in a voice that ambiguously verged between a spoken language and the ambient sounds of nature. It was somewhere in-between the poetry of Sappho and the rustling of the wind, or the murmuring of the low tide. In either case, it was indescribably and terrifically beautiful. Although she understood none of the words (if they were even words of a language), the siren seemed to tap into the very core of Carina's soul, and tell her something more personal than anything anyone had ever said to her, although she was singing to the group of them. Compounded by the alcohol in her stomach and in her head, Carina suddenly found everything very beautiful: the darkness of the sea, like the skin of a ripe, bulbous black grape; the infinity of the overhead stars; Daphne's head in Arcturus' lap, Carina's own head on Theodore's shoulder; Bacchus' intense focus as he, deafened from the sublimity of the show, ensured that it would lull no one to their death. Everything big and small, ugly and pretty, pureblood and muggle, seemed to be integrated in one cosmic poem that the Siren—who herself had grown beautiful in an indescribable way, beautiful in a way that almost kindled jealousy, were it not for the fact Carina was completely enrapt—had revealed for the first time to the world.

Then it stopped. Graham Montague had begun to crawl towards the sea, and Bacchus at once gestured for the Siren to quiesce, which it did at once.

Strangely, the beauty of the siren's song left a pleasant aftertaste in Carina; when it stopped, she'd expected to yearn for its immediate continuance, but surprisingly, she—and everyone else—seemed grateful that it had been sung at all.

Marcus Flint's desire to play drunken Quidditch was fulfilled, and Carina was surprised that she was quite excited to engage in the bizarre if not outright dangerous activity herself. She had never flown while drunk before, but Montague said that it was akin to "flying for the first time"—an incomparable sensation that she was excited to recreate. A few miles down the coast, there were a pair of Quidditch hoops erected _in_ the sea.

"This broom's terrible," Carina shook her head. "Can't manoeuvre on it anymore than a flobberworm can jump out a cauldron."

"They've been charmed," Theo noted smartly, "so that we don't fall down, 'cause if someone drowned, the night would be ruined."

Chasers-only Quidditch was engaging and fast-paced, like duelling. Carina had always thought there was some nobility in her role as the seeker, which necessitated patience and precision—but the dexterity and deftness required to be a competent chaser was something to be admired, she realised, as she completely missed catching the quaffle Marcus Flint easily threw at her.

"For fuck's say, Malfoy," Flint shouted. "How in the name of Salazar's cock did you ever catch the snitch if you can't even catch a fucking _quaffle_?"

"How did you ever find a fiancée?" Carina shot back, "I'd sooner make love with a dead hippogriff than kiss your ugly mouth. Does she fancy licking chizpurfle fangs?"

"Amortentia," Flint yelled. They both knew it was absurd; he lacked both the competence in potioneering and the guile necessary to spike a pureblood woman with a love potion.

Then, Flint aggressively propelled the quaffle at her, and she only narrowly dodged it, for manoeuvring on the safeguarded broom was a veritable pain in the ass.

While the others continued their quick back-and-forth game, Carina secretly drew her wand, and cast practically every general countercurse she could remember on her broom. Eventually, she felt the tension leave the broom, and kicked her legs in pleasure. It felt like taking off a particularly tight, inconvenient jacket. She accelerated downwards, revelling in the furious coolness of the night wind, before surging upwards like a shooting star. Montague was wrong; flying while drunk wasn't a recreation of the first time Carina had ever flown—it was even better. She felt like a big bird of prey, or a dragon, revelling in its aerial supremacy, and she was so distracted by her own euphoria that she hadn't even noticed how far she'd left the seaborne Quidditch pitch.

Of course, she eventually lost control and plummeted off her broomstick, falling into the sea.

It was freezing and the waves were quite tumultuous this far out; for a moment, fear completely soaked her heart just as water completely drenched her robes, before something pulled her out of the water.

"Merlin's sake, Carina," came Bacchus' deep voice. "Let's get you back inside. I've some spare robes — go have a bath."

They did return to the villa, but rather than heeding Bacchus' advice, Carina joined her fellow to-be seventh years in his pool. There, she stripped only to her undergarments, and smiled rather smugly at Theo after seeing him blushing deeply, trying to look away from her. Despite the presence of the Arcturus and Theo, Daphne had no qualms whatsoever about their juicy topic of conversation.

"Justin Finch-Fletchey," she repeated. "None of the others begin to compare."

"Justin looks better, yes," came Tracey's voice. "But Ernest MacMillan _feels_ better —"

"Tracey! You never told m —"

"That's _not_ what I meant, curse you! I've never even talked to Ernest — but he's the _better boy_ , like overall. It's not just looks."

" _Ernest_ ," Carina repeated mockingly. "In passing, Tracey, I would say that regardless whether or not _you know him,_ you ought to address him as _Ernie_. We've been in the same classes for six years."

" _Ernie_ wouldn't call you Carrie," Theo noted jealously.

"Ernest, Ernie," Tracey shrugged indifferently. "I'd do dirty things with either instead of Justin."

"Well, each witch is suited to a different wand —"

"Disgusting," Carina cut Daphne off, although she stifled laughter herself. "Don't use that expression ever again."

"Moving on," Daphne smiled, "what about Gryffindor?"

"Pick your poison," said Carina.

They laughed at Carina's comment, Theo the loudest of them all.

"I would say Dean Thomas," Daphne said with mock seriousness. "He's definitely wasting his time with someone like _Ginny Weasley_."

"What about Ron Weasley?" Tracey asked.

"Inferior to all of his brothers," Carina declared with finality. "I'd say Thomas, too — but only because he's the only Gryffindor boy who's not a complete git."

"All of his brothers were smarter than him," Theo agreed.

" _Really_ , Carrie?" Daphne asked with serious surprise. "All of that was years ago."

"What do you mean?"

"Your feud with the Gryff boys, wasn't that in like, second year? Does it still bother you —"

"Not _that_ ," Carina cut her off. "Finnigan is a fickle mandrake, Longbottom is a _vegetable_ , Weasley is a _rodent_ , and Granger — well, Granger is the worst of them all — he's _almost_ human, only enough so to be annoying."

"What has Florizel Granger _ever_ done to you?!" Daphne cried out. "But now that you mention him, I think Granger can give Thomas a run for his money, I mean he's —"

"Indelicate, self-serious, and jittery like a cursed grandfather clock," Carina finished for her. "I often had to patrol with him in fifth-year. He treats being a Prefect like being a member of the Wizengamot. Thankfully Katie Bell saw that we never worked well together, so when she became Head Girl, she put an end to the Granger-Malfoy patrol team."

"Better an overserious boy than an underserious one, no?" Daphne teased. "I mean, he's brilliant —"

"And _brilliance_ means nothing if you never use a hairbrush!" Carina cried out, splashing water at her friend. "He runs his hand through his hair like he's trying to harvest gillyweed — not vainly, but completely _absentmindedly_ — and he always strokes his forehead, and when he talks to me, his eyes run _everywhere,_ not as in over my _body_ , but literally _everywhere_ , from the floor to the ceiling, as if he can't think without his —"

"Carina."

A new yet painfully familiar male voice entered; Thorfinn Rowle.

"What do _you_ want?"

Carina tensed up at once; she didn't know it was possible to feel so tense while drunk. Thorfinn Rowle was her first boyfriend and, embarrassingly, _five_ years older than her.

It happened when she was in her second-year. Bartemius Crouch Senior, emboldened by some internal development in the Ministry, went on a wave of vindictive prosecuting against Ministry officials who had been partial to Voldemort in any capacity. More trials were held that month than in the previous seven years combined. Thorfinn's parents were middling officials for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical creatures; they stood no chance against Crouch's craftiness, and both were condemned to a lifetime in Azkaban.

Father took the then sixth-year Slytherin Prefect Thorfinn into his own care. Carina, being a naive little girl, saw in the handsome, tormented, brooding thin blonde boy a virile, powerful man set in a war against fate. She was infatuated with him, and when he got expelled from Hogwarts for viciously cursing a pair of Gryffindor boys, her obsession only developed further, like a cancer. One thing led to another, and before she knew it, she was naked and vulnerable in the musclebound embrace of the much older boy. Of course, father quickly got wind of the whole scheme; Thorfinn was thrown out of Malfoy Manor, and Carina received no Christmas gifts that year, and rightfully so, for she had done a shameful, stupid thing.

The years had been hard on Thorfinn; alcoholism and the obvious abuse of various potions rendered him into someone even more despicable. In his sixth year, Carina thought she looked like a younger, charmingly sorrowful version of her own father. Now he looked like a knut-a-dozen Knockturn Alley thug. He used to be heads taller than her, and now, she was almost as tall as him. Her infatuation died completely in her third-year, but now, going into her seventh-year, she saw the first boy she had ever made love with for what he was: a complete and utter loser, less dignified than a drunken squib.

"You already know what I want," he said in a hoarse voice, "and I know what you want."

"How did you get here?" Arcturus Black sharply interrupted. "Bacchus wouldn't have invited you. You weren't at dinner."

"Fuck off, Black," Thorfinn growled, spitting on the floor, before his tone mellowed immediately, "Carina — my sweetheart, my love — I've come to you, _for_ you —"

"You've had too much to drink," Carina blurted. "Go lie down, you'll regret your words if you say anything more."

"I'm _fine_ , I'm _in control_ ," Thorfinn snapped, taking a step forward. "Look at you, you're a grown woman now, a real beauty — we shouldn't wait any longer, Carina baby, we shouldn't —"

"Leave her alone you sick fuck," Theodore Nott shouted, reaching for his wand by the pool's curb, but he was too slow—Thorfinn stepped on it.

"I've loved you all these years, and bided my time, Carina — run away with me. We can wherever you want. I have money now, lots of it, don't ask how I got it — we can go anywhere, Japan, Monaco, South America —"

"You're d-delusional," Carina's voice faltered, and she stepped back in the pool. "I feel nothing for you. I was a stupid little girl —"

"Don't lie to me."

"Thorfinn, why don't you go rest," Daphne said sweetly. "I'm sure Carina will talk to you in the morning… everything will be fine…"

"Don't lie!"

"She clearly wants you to _piss off_ ," Theo declared, lifting himself out of the pool—only for Thorfinn to casually push him back in.

"You're all little liars, just like your spineless parents," Thorfinn said more to himself than anyone else. "But Carina — you know where your heart truly lies —"

"I do. Not with you, not in any sense of the word."

Rather than say anything, Thorfinn jumped into the pool, still in his raggy set of robes. Arcturus and Theo went to grab him, but Carina, not wanting the situation to escalate further, held up a hand and shouted, "no! Let him be." Thorfinn came to her, rested his hands onto her bare shoulders, and gave a luxuriant sigh as he fondled her arms.

"Don't you miss me?"

"No," Carina held his gaze. "Now get your filthy hands off me or I'll have father send you to join your filthy parents."

Thorfinn scoffed, and his breath stank of cigars and whiskey. "Your _father._ Fuck him. Don't mention him ever again in my presence. You're lucky I love you, or else I'd hurt you, oh yes... I'd hurt you —"

He tightened his clasp on her arms and pulled her closer. Carina's heart jumped into her throat.

"You're already hurting me."

Thankfully, before Thorfinn could do anything more, the other drunken Quidditch players returned, Marcus Flint at their head. It appeared he wanted to re-invite Carina to their game, as he held another broomstick in his hand and wore a cheerful expression, but as soon as he beheld the scene in the swimming pool—Thorfinn's holding Carina like a hippogriff holding a dead gazelle, and Carina's terrified face— his expression immediately warped into one of fury.

"Oi, what the fuck is goin' on?! Get the fuck off her, Thor!"

"Marcus, fancy seeing you here!"

Thorfinn spun around and pointed his wand at Flint, but he was too late—as though adeptly dodging a bludger, Flint instinctively dived to avoid his spell, before diving head-on to lift him up by the arm. He barked at Goyle to grab Thorfinn's other arm—the two held Thorfinn in the air like a pair of vultures dangling a large, squirming rabbit.

"Let go off me! I'll fucking kill you!"

Goyle slammed his beater's bat into Thorfinn's shoulder, inciting a crunching sound and then a scream.

"What should we do with him, snitch?" Flint asked casually.

"I don't care," Carina made sure her eyes stayed fixed on Rowle's own as she intoned her cold words.

"Alright then, easy," Flint winked. "Goyle!"

The pair of wizards flew into the horizon, and dropped Thorfinn into the sea. At that very moment, Carina's stoical, impassive expression crumbled under the weight of the memory of touch and the alcohol in her bloodstream; she started sobbing, before bursting into a fit of ugly, sniffling crying, and Daphne held her like a mother hugging their small, scared daughter.

She wanted to leave the pool, and her yearmates joined her. After a soothing bath, where Daphne washed her hair and massaged her back, she changed into one of Bacchus' huge red woolly nightgowns, and retired to a parlour on the fourth floor. There, Bacchus profusely apologised to her, explaining that he had extended an invite and given a portkey to Phineas Pritchard, a former yearmate of Thorfinn's—Pritchard was called on short notice to an important Ministry meeting, and thoughtlessly decided to give his portkey to Thorfinn.

The rest of the evening was spent peacefully in the candlelit parlour. Bacchus played a harp, with the two adoring Carrow twins wrapped around him like snakes around a thick branch, while Arcturus and Daphne, enchanted by his music, tangled together on the carpet and kissed and kissed and kissed, still with honeymoon passion for each other after eight months of being together. Carina laid her head in Theo's lap, happy to let him indulgently stroke her hair and her face as he was happy to let her cry onto his legs and complain about how she regretted everything she had ever done with Thorfinn Rowle, and how she hated her romantic life, sparing no details about her fling with Bacchus and then Etienne, the boy from Beauxbatons, knowing full well that Theo himself was utterly besotted with her. In the company of her friends her sorrow quickly faded away, and she felt like a tired child at the end of a long day; eager to sleep, but also eager to stay awake to enjoy her fatigue.

It was then, as she idly nibbled on a slice of margherita pizza, that one of the service elves, wearing a green scarf like a toga, suddenly appeared besides her and tapped her shoulder.

"An owl with a letter for you, _signorina Malfoy_."

The creature handed her a large envelope before disappearing with a crack. It came from Hogwarts, as inferred by its emblematic seal.

"A letter from school at this hour?" Arcturus Black asked, his brow furrowing.

In her drunken stupor, Carina guessed that it might have been her seventh year shopping list, before recalling that she, and everyone else, had received such a list a month ago. She broke the seal, and read the letter within—and as she read it, her eyes grew more and more awake, her smile wider and wider, and her overall expression more and more incredulous, for it was truly, all things considered, an absurd letter. Daphne looked at her incredulously.

Carina snatched the opened envelope from the carpet, and found in it what she was looking for; a badge. She sat upright, and pinned it onto the breast of her nightgown, before bursting into frantic, drunken laughter.

She was going to become the Head Girl.


End file.
